Detonation
by Planeguy121
Summary: First Lt. Hannah Mitchell witnesses the blast at NCIS headquarters, and flashes back to a similar event almost a decade earlier. Follows my AFOSI series. Takes place 6 months after Search And Destroy. Oneshot.


**I wrote this up minutes after watching the NCIS season finale, but I promise that I'll finish the final chapter of **_**Search and Destroy**_** over the weekend.**

**Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. Mitchell and Henderson are mine. Any similarities to actual events or people are unintentional.**

**This short oneshot takes place in the first-person POV of First Lt. Hannah Mitchell, an OC from my AFOSI team, and her perspective on the blast that takes out a good chunk of the NCIS building, from a few blocks away. It flashes back between present day, and an IED attack eight years prior.**

**WARNING: This contains vivid descriptions of the bomb attack on the NCIS headquarters, and an IED attack in Afghanistan. Don't read if you have an active imagination.**

The ground shook, almost like the tiny earthquakes they had in Iraq occasionally, some from nearby fault lines, some from IEDs. As Henderson and I got up from our seats in the café, a low "boom" rattled the cups on the table. We both knew that sound; an explosion. We looked up at the skyline of DC, and saw a massive blast of smoke over the Navy Yard. Not just a column of smoke from a fire, but a massive smoke cloud from what had to have been a powerful bomb. Just like Afghanistan…

As we stared in awe at the blast, I felt my vision blur, and the scenery change. The temperature rose thirty degrees, and instead of comfortable clothes, I was back in sandy, battered BDUs. I glanced down at the M4 cradled in my arms, and over at the other BaseSec officer standing at the checkpoint. I remembered this scene. Eight years ago, when I wasn't a Fed. I was a soldier; one of the few female troops who actually would see combat.

The sound of a diesel engine woke me from my inner thoughts, before Henderson pulled me out of the flashback. A massive pillar of smoke and flame now rose above the skyline, and Henderson was pulling his service weapon out of his car. The streets were too clogged with fleeing people to drive down to the Yard, so we had to go on foot. Thousands ran like hell away from the explosion, while a few of us, DC Police, off-duty Feds, and a pair of National Guardsmen did what we do best. We ran towards the fireball.

I flashed back again, to Afghanistan, in 2004. A large covered truck was barreling towards us, and while most personnel cleared the area for hardened bunkers, I returned fire. My rifle barked, as the front windscreen of the truck shattered, revealing the slumped body of the driver. The truck kept coming, and I kept firing. There was little more to do than that.

I returned to the present day. Henderson and I had made it to the blast site. An entire wing of the NCIS headquarters had collapsed, and a massive crater had formed in the parking lot.

The truck exploded. Chunks of pavement hurled themselves at me, as I was thrown back by the blast, and into unconsciousness.

Bodies were everywhere. Henderson had disappeared, probably trying to pull survivors out of the rubble. I headed towards the blast site to join him. Cars had been thrown like toys, and pieces of bodies were everywhere.

I was back in Afghanistan. The truck was gone; a yard-deep crater in its place. I struggled to stand up, noting an arm that was probably broken. A column of smoke from a destroyed ammunition carrier blotted out the sun, and the stinging smoke forced my eyes shut. Screams were all around me.

Those screams carried over to the Navy Yard, where I spotted Henderson trying to free someone pinned underneath a flipped car. Rushing over to help, I saw with shock that the man's entire lower half had been charred by fire. He screamed in pain, before passing into blissful unconsciousness.

The blast in Afghanistan was far worse. Debris had been thrown hundreds of yards, lighting a Predator command station on fire, and flipping several Humvees. As I struggled to stay upright, I spotted the body of the other guard who was on duty at the gate. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle, impaled on a piece of rebar. Oddly enough, I thought to myself how cliché it was, before I checked his pulse. He was dead. I had barely known the man.

Through the smoke and burning wreckage at the Navy Yard, I spotted several figures emerging from the smoke, realizing that they were the NCIS team we had worked with several months ago. One of them was limping, another's body was limp, and I didn't know if he was still alive. The one who was still standing, Gibbs, the team leader, immediately rushed back in. There were more people inside.

Bodies were everywhere; their blood and charred bodies mingling with the gritty Afghan sand. A group of locals headed towards the blast, chanting and hollering. I saw a Humvee drive up to them. I heard the .50 caliber machine gun's sharp reports. I didn't look back. I heard a shout. "Mitchell! You good?"

I shook my head, reliving that it was Henderson who had asked. I nodded, and watched as Navy firefighters headed into the building. Something about survivors trapped in the elevator.

I heard broken glass crunch under my feet, realizing that somehow the blast didn't obliterate my eardrums. I stumbled once, finally seeing the dark red stain on the left leg of my BDUs, and the paler stain in the groin. I didn't care. The carnage swept back, past the secondary checkpoint, where I saw a soldier pinned by a collapsed wall. With my broken arm, I couldn't do anything except yell for help. I looked up, and a trio of helicopter flew over; two Marine UH-1Y Venoms, and a single Cobra attack helicopter. The Venoms landed by the crater, and began disgorging troops.

Back in reality, a pair of Blackhawks flew over, ostentatiously displaying their door guns to anyone who considered attacking the rescue effort. More people rushed by, carrying what looked like a Goth woman in a lab coat, bleeding from a massive gash in her leg. I did a double-take, before writing it off as shock from what had happened. The pounding in my head grew, before I returned to the desert.

A Marine rushed up to me, asking some gibberish or another. I didn't understand what he was saying, until he pushed me down onto a stretcher, and I made out "internal bleeding" and "shrapnel wounds," neither of which sounded good in the slightest.

When I came to, I wasn't being pushed down onto a stretcher by a medic; I was being pulled up by a battered and soot-covered David. He looked weary, and more than a little scared. We both thought the same thing, and finally, we left the blast site, as ambulances streamed past us, and helicopters soared overhead.

He wasn't at the base when the bomb went off. He was dozens of miles away, thousands of feet up in the air, attacking a Taliban position. It changed little, once he knew what happened to the base.

We never said a word, but we both knew what the bomb at the Navy Yard reminded us of; a day eight years ago, when the ground cracked open and the sky turned black with smoke.

**Dedicated to those who have given their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan for our safety back home, and to the men and women who help defend our country every day, in the United States, and abroad.**


End file.
